


The Hand of the Queen

by Chaos_is_a_laddah



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/M, Petyr as her hand, Queen in the North Sansa, got season 8, my little attempt to fix the later season of GOT and the horror they did to Petyr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-27 01:34:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19780531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaos_is_a_laddah/pseuds/Chaos_is_a_laddah
Summary: Sansa is coronated as Queen in the North. And she has something up her sleeve (or by her side) to help her rule.





	The Hand of the Queen

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own the characters, because you better believe that if I did own Petyr Baelish, I would not have ruined his storyline like the trash in later seasons of GOT. 
> 
> This is Petyr/Sansa, so if that’s not your cup of tea, you’ll want to read something else. 
> 
> Basically this is my head-canon to fix things post season 8. Please enjoy :)

“The Queen in the North! The Queen in the North! The Queen in the North!”  
The shouts were almost deafening to Sansa. The glint of the swords thrust in the air, the trust in the eyes of her subjects, the joy in the voices— all of it delighted and terrified her at the same time. The moment that the crown rested on her head, the weight of the kingdom of the North was laid on her shoulders. 

She kept her face still, regal but stony. She maintained a calm exterior, as was expected of her, even while heart beat in her chest with such a force she wondered if everyone in the hall could hear and know her secret— she was terrified. And she was alone. 

The lone wolf dies but the pack survives. 

The words echoed in her head as she carefully lowered herself on to the throne, the one carved and adorned with wolves. But she was the lone wolf now. She was distinctly aware of how alone she was. Arya was sailing West, Jon was beyond the wall, and Bran— King Bran, he wasn’t even her brother any more. He was something else now. Everyone else she once had was gone. Her parents, Robb, Rickon...

She had tried to keep her family with her the only way she knew how. The designs on her dress each held an element of her siblings and parents. But the little symbols were no replacement to the real thing. 

She sat in the very hall where her whole family had gathered only eight years ago. In her mind, she could see laughing Robb, her mother talking quietly in the ear of her father at the head table, Bran and Rickon jostling each other before they were forced off to bed, Arya throwing pie at her...

Ghosts of a time long gone. 

Sansa had been a stupid, vapid girl back then. She had been terrible to her siblings, shallow in her pursuits. She was naive in almost every aspect of life. Since then, she had been through so much, learned so much, but at the same time, Sansa still felt like the little girl who had screamed at her sister for staining her dress. 

Her heart beat faster in her chest as the reality of her new responsibilities set in. She had wanted this her whole life— to be queen— and yet here she was, newly crowned, and her dress only felt suffocating, the crown was simply a reminder of her power to fail, and the cries of her people were a mandate that she must not fail. 

Her thoughts whirled around inside her head. She wanted to dash out of the hall and back to her old bedroom. She wanted to return the crown. Maybe they could give it to someone older, more qualified....

She glanced to the her side, the blood roaring in her ears, contemplating an escape, when she noticed a familiar figure leaning the the doorway. 

She knew that suave posture and signature smirk anywhere. 

Petyr Baelish. 

The rushing in her ears stilled. All the sound went out, and the bustle of people and cries disappeared. 

With a simple sight of her mentor, her friend, her confidant, all the rising fear and anxiety left her. She was reminded that this was exactly where she was supposed to be. 

She met his eyes, his grey-green ones connecting with her blues, and she allowed herself a small smile in his direction. 

Petyr had been the one man to stay by her side when all others had failed. He had been her only friend in King’s Landing, and he saved her life more times than she could count. He was a father, a protector, a friend, perhaps even a lover, all wrapped into one. 

And he was the only one who had ever truly believed in her. He never saw a silly girl fit only to be a good wife and mother to princes and princesses. He saw a ruler. And he taught her to be just that. 

When Petyr had approached her a year ago and told her of Bran’s thinly veiled threat to him, Sansa had been appalled. Petyr was not the same man who had pressed a knife to her Father’s throat those many years ago. He had not even done anything wrong then, only doing what needed to be done to stay alive. He had tried to help her father, but the honorable Ned Stark stubbornly refused. Ever since the very beginning, he had protected her. Petyr was her friend, her ally, and she didn’t want him to be taken away. 

When he approached her, Petyr had already come up with a plan, as he always did. Bran wouldn’t rest until he had given him the justice he believe was deserved, Petyr had told her. 

So they had to give him just that. 

It wasn’t hard to do. 

“Think of it like a show,” he had whispered in her ear, “a play only for Bran.”

With all the Lords and Ladies present, she had him stand trial for the crimes that Bran listed. 

It only took some rabbits blood and clever acting for Bran to believe that “justice” had been served. 

But now Bran had no power over the North. Sansa was Queen here, and she wouldn’t let anything happen to her friend. 

The cries were dying down now, the swords beginning to lower and return to their sheaths. 

Sansa stood, her head now held high, confidence returned. The Northmen quickly quieted, eagerly awaiting the words of their queen. 

“You have fought for many years,” the strength and regality of her own voice surprised even her. She hoped it impressed Petyr. She continued, “and you have lost many loved ones. Now, you have triumphed over the Lannisters, over death, over all those who would oppose you. Now, you have the freedom you deserve!” She had to pause to allow them to cheer. 

“Those who made sacrifices to bring us to this moment will never be forgotten. And I, as your queen, promise you this: I will do everything in my power to honor them, and to honor you, in the manner all deserve.”

With her declaration, the crowd roared again, a cacophony of voices rising in agreement, reminding her that she would always be accountable to that promise. 

When they quieted, she took a long breath before continuing. 

“To rule well, the way you deserve, I will need help. And so, my first order as your Queen is to appoint my hand.”

She held out her own hand, palm up, shaking slightly at the gravity and pressure of her words. 

At her silent invitation, Petyr strode forward. He felt none of the fear that she did, or at least he showed nothing. His face was regal, his steps carefully measured and smoothly carried out. 

He took her hand with the same tenderness as he would every day in the Eyrie when he would walk with her through the halls. 

“Lord Baelish,” she raised her voice so that the entire hall could hear her words, “do you accept the responsibility of hand of the Queen?”

“I do, Your Grace, it would be my honor to serve you.” His voice was confident, strong. He smiled at her, a private gesture meant to be shared only with her. It reassured her in a way that no words ever could. 

Sansa released his hand and reached down to curl her fingers around the pin. The hand shaped from brass was smooth under her touch as she pressed it underneath her thumb. 

She drew it from her pocket and raised it slowly, so the whole crowd could watch.  
With the greatest of care, she laid a hand on his chest and positioned the pin above the fabric of his tunic that covered his heart. 

The pin slid in to his tunic with ease, as if it was always meant to be there. The moment it was done, fit perfect on his chest, Sansa raised her eyes to meet his. 

Few people ever saw Petyr for who he really was. The world saw Littlefinger, the mask of the genial man, everyone’s friend who was always ready with a smile and a quip. But Littlefinger’s smiles never quite reached his eyes. But with Sansa, the man was Petyr, and his eyes spoke volumes. He looked at her with adoration and respect. And in that moment, when his eyes connected with hers, he was reassuring her. 

Sansa has to break the connection before she got lost in the grey-green depths. Around Petyr, she could lose all sense of time and the world. 

She turned back to the people who were watching her expectantly. 

“Now... we had taken care of enough business for now, let the festivities commence!”

**Author's Note:**

> I fully intend to add to this story and make it all about their adventures, but I came to a bit of a block with the next section and thought I might as well post this first bit. 
> 
> I’d love to hear some comments :) Please be kind, this is my first published GOT fic


End file.
